Foood?

I was in my kitchen today. This is not a rare occurrence as I can often be found in my kitchen, but I do not grace the kitchen with my presence to achieve what many would consider the ultimate goal when entering a kitchen, and that is to prepare food.

No, I go into the kitchen to try and prepare food. You see, no matter how hard I try, however many attempts I make and however often I hold a particular container of food up to my face to peer eagerly at it's fine contents and nutritional value, to at least try to conjure an idea for what manner of a meal or snack I should make for this fine afternoon, I end up leaving the kitchen with an empty stomach, every time.

My attention wanders, you see. I think about anything - everything in fact, that has nothing to do with food. I can be happily staring into the space roughly half a metre past the jar of artichoke hearts I hold in my grasp while I think about the different brands of calculators, or cats, or cats with calculators glued to their backs, or alarm clocks that are friendly and talk to you in the morning. Nothing can distract me from this. Not even my sister, can wrench my gaze from whatever it is I'm not looking at to inform me that I've been standing there for roughly forty-five minutes with the fridge door open.

Today, for example, I went into the kitchen, I opened the fridge and peered at its fine content of slightly overripe fruits, bruised carrots, and assorted dairy products, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't think of anything but this -

In the Super Mario series of games, Mario somehow has the ability to pick things up without the use of his hands. Not even that, but he seems to offer no obvious method by which items are procured. Coins, power-up mushrooms, invincibility stars. All that these things require to be taken from their lofty perch atop an almost equally improbable floaty block is to be walked into.
What if this happened all the time in real life? Objects would randomly disappear upon collision with a human body, only to reappear as nothing more than a number in the corner of your vision, or a curious after effect - possibly causing the unfortunate victim to grow to the size of a large oak tree.

As I held the russet onion in my hand, I found myself perplexed by this. I tried touching the onion a few times to see if I could "pick it up", but alas, nothing happened. I placed the onion back into the fridge and walked out of the kitchen. I'd forgotten what I'd come in for.